


Bitter as Willow

by valderys



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-16
Updated: 2010-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old Man Willow has vengeance within his grasp...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter as Willow

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2004 for Marigold's Challenge 10. The prompt was to write a fic set somewhere on the Quest.

Just a little more now… Yes, this way… The going is easier here. That's right.

You're tired now, aren't you? It's so very hot, and you have been walking all day, strolling through my Forest, without a care in the world. Did you think about that? That it is my Forest? Of course, you didn't. And now there are hundreds of nasty flies around, all biting and stinging. But it will be cool here, you know, and you will find relief from your weariness. It is cool under the trees, cool under my leaves. Let me soothe you with my branches, trailing into the water, let me sing you a lullaby of brown water, a song of the greenwood.

That's right. You should lie down. You have cares and travails to worry about, of course you do. Your burdens are terribly heavy, aren't they? But I can let you rest, I can take them all away, if you will let me. All you have to do is listen. Can you hear me whispering? Of course you can. Let me help you.

To you, little mayflies, it all seems so important, doesn't it? You chatter and fret, flutter and caw, worse than any of the small feathered kind that come and sit in my boughs, that come and make their homes in the crooks of my branches. But you… You are more dangerous than they, for all your small size. Your axes are no less sharp than those of bigger folk. Your fire burns just as hot. Do not think I have forgotten, in the long Ages. Your people's passage is but the turning of a season to me. All your fuss and bother, your building and shaping, your cutting and destroying – do not think I have forgotten, for it is as yesterday to me.

Sleep now. It is time to sleep. There is time, there is always plenty of time. Time runs ever onwards but never does it run away, like my stream, like my Withywindle, brown and cool and slow. You shall be but a small splash in time's river. Barely a ripple will mar its ageless surface, and you should not repine, for, after all, what mayfly could ask for more? And I shall remember you, as your flesh feeds my earth, as your blood waters my roots, I shall remember your taste, and your bright chatter, and your cruel songs. All woods must fail, indeed.

You cannot escape me, you know. I am everywhere, and nowhere. My song is in the air, in the soil, running in your bones. I am the master here, and you have come to me. Although I will admit that if you had not, if you had not come tripping so merrily through your hedge, through the brickwork and metal of your gate, then my melodies would not seem so sweet, would not intoxicate you as they do now. And knowing that, knowing how powerless I am outside of my small corner, all that is left to me in this Age of the world, knowing that, I find that I am angry. It is slow building, this anger, but it has been growing for such a very long time, long even as I reckon the seasons. And now, now you have come to me. Anticipation is the sweetest gift. And what shall I do with you? Ah, what indeed.

That's right. Lie down beside me, snuggle your soft bodies against my strong bark, and I will sing to you, sing to you of time, and water flowing past in an ever-running stream, sing to you of a time long ago when the Forest clung to the land, lovingly wrapping it in her mantle, and Old Man Willow stood proud, and only bowed his branches for love of the earth, to caress her soil in reverence. Come lie with me and sleep awhile. A long while.

Yet there are two more who fight me still. What harm is there to an old grey willow tree? That's right, the ground beneath me is soft with leaves, grey and yellow, yellow and grey, and the sun is so bright. Just rest your eyes a moment, just a moment. Ah, one of you has succumbed, limbs heavy with drowsiness, and you lie now pressed to my earth, your face turned into the sod, and I can feel you there, warm and lithe, with a little heart that beats so fast, like a tiny crouching mouse. But yet there is another. You, I cannot sense so strongly. Your feet alone are planted, broad feet, even for one of your kind, and they hold you from the earth, hold you from my embrace. Can you not hear my whisper? Of seeds and growth, and winter sleeps, bare branches reaching and dreaming of the spring to come? You sway like a sapling but I still cannot tell if you can hear me.

No matter. I have three of you at least, and that must content me for the present. You, the broad-footed one, you of the small mind, and closed ears, who does not hear my siren call, you too shall succumb in the end. In the end. But for now let me contemplate awhile. What seems to me the most appropriate punishment, now I may have some small part of my revenge? What is meet and proper, what is strangely fitting, now that I have time at my leisure to think on it? How shall the end come?

You two who sleep so trustingly against me, who shift and sigh, and grope your hands towards each other, who clutch at my bark as though it is your mother's breast, how shall I deal with you? You, the smallest one, has hair that shines like hazelnuts, lovely in your youth and beauty. I would smile a little at that gleam, if I did not also think of young saplings cut down in their prime, new growth cruelly cut short, or of birches, tall and pale, struggling on scrubby hillsides, bowed down in the wind on bare cleared downs. No, compassion is not in my nature, not any more. I am rotten to the core, black to the heart of me, and I will not succumb to the blandishments of a fair innocent face and that hazel-shine on wayward curls. Still…

I can at least make it quick. When the moment comes I will snatch at you quickly, my little one, snatch you and catch you and tuck you away where it is warm and dark, and hold you close, until you know no more. You may never even understand what is happening, if I am careful, and although this is not the full vengeance I was seeking, somehow it does not make me unhappy. I rustle my branches a little, uncomfortable and somehow wistful, thinking of my dear forests so long ago, when all was as young as this sweet hazel-child…

Enough. I turn my attention now to you, my russet lad, all rosy and delicious as a chestnut blooming, so fair of face and eager of limb, and yet with blood as black as the foulest orc. Did you think that I would not recognise you? Did you think that I have not heard your cheery voice before, felt your breath in the wind, your shy footfalls on the edges of my domain? Did you believe that I would not recognise the taint of the Brandybuck about you? Tree murderer! You and all your kind. Only yesterday it was, when I cried to the wind for the death of my brethren, and the crackle of the flames was as loud as anguish in the still air, and a shroud of ash came drifting down to stain my branches black. I wept that day, the weeping willow tree indeed. I will never forget. I will never forgive. And you, my chestnut-lad, so open and carefree, so bold as to think you know the ways of my Forest, come through your hedge at last to my lands, now lie curled against me, and in my power!

No, to this one I offer no compassion, to this one I offer no more mercy than his family showed mine. You shall feel my vengeance ten-fold by the time I am done with you, small chestnut-child, I will crack your skin and spill your pale flesh onto the forest floor. I will consume you a little at a time, and you shall feel each bite. I shall whisper to you all the while, and you shall know my wrath. Vengeance shall be mine, and it will be sweet indeed.

So last I turn to you, the last but not least, who lies so close to the earth your breath stirs my fallen leaves, and whose pulse I feel beating even now, all dark haired and wild of heart, with fear your closest companion. What shall I do with you? You have an air of winter about you, evergreen but cold, it breathes off you like mist, my little fir tree. You are slim as a switch, but strong as tangled hawthorn too, I can feel it in my roots. But I can feel far more than that. There is a darkness about you, my little one, there would have been far worse things in your future than the Old Grey Willow-man, if you had not been tempted from the path. You may thank me yet for my revenge, strange though that may seem.

For I know you too. Do not think that your careful explorations of my fringes have left me unaware. I have tasted your breath before, seasons ago, as you tripped lightly out of your gate to wander the edges of my groves, to pick my mushrooms, to climb my trees and sing like the feathered ones, high and sweet, as you swung from chancy boughs high above the ground. You are more fearless than most of your kind, but I know you. I know what you whispered into the wood on the darkest nights, I know what the River took from you, and what you fear. I think it is only proper that I should give to you the same kind fate. For though the taint of Brandybuck about you is fainter than it was, still you are of the kindred whom I most hate, and it seems to me only fitting. Yes, oh yes…

Up you get, my wild child, my darkling lad. Can you not sense the water, brown and cool and slow? Up you get, and stagger this way for me, only a few steps, such a few, for you are hot, are you not? The water will cool you, it will refresh you, and then we will take you down to dwell, where my roots drink deep, where the minnows sleep, and the weed waves farewell, and we shall never let you go again. You will not miss the world, you know that, for never again will you be alone. I know what you most fear, and what you most miss, both. That's right…

Ah, I did not know that vengeance would be so satisfying. The day is bright, the sun joyfully pushes its heat into my bark. I taste the sweetness in the air and know that it is good. And yet, and yet… Where is the fourth? You of the broad feet and the strong back, where are you now? You search my paths for your wandered beasts – such care you show! It will not avail you in the end, but for your care's sake I will guide them back to your gate. I would not see harm come to any creature innocent of wilful malice. Your beasts have never wielded axe or lit accursed flames, I will look after them. Can you hear me calling? Come, my strong young oak, I say it is safe to return…

What is that? Who comes singing along my paths so carelessly? Ah, no, it is you, Forest-master. Why now? When I am so close that I can almost taste the beat of their lives in my heart. And yet why not now? You ever were a Being of timing, whether of wind, or sun, or sweet spring rain, and you ever were the Master. Quickly now, I must act before it is too late, a snick and a tip, and soon I will have you all. Even though the strong one is on the path still, I may yet cozen him, he will come at the sounds, and you may pass by, your hands full of lilies and thoughts of your goodwife winding your heart with the scent of flowers and the taste of honey. If I am quick…

I was right about you, young oak, broad of feet you are and closed of mind, but strong in body and in purpose. I was careless to let you go, I know that now, careless to let you wander away, away from my song and the heavy air, my drowsy lullaby yet unheard and unheeded. You will be the end of me, somehow I am sure, and I curse you for it… You have your darkling hawthorn lad, he drips water down to feed my roots but his blood will no longer feed my Withywindle, and I cry for the loss of it, and burn with an anger that is slow-burning and long-kindled. But I have your other children, you shall not have them back, the Brandybuck murderer and the little hazelnut, no, you shall not! Though you reach for bitter edged metal and cruel sparks of fire, as I knew you would, for I knew you were no better than any other of your kind. I shall not give them back!

Ah, no… Please, Forest-master, may I not have the smallest portion of my revenge? May I not even have the blooming chestnut lad, who himself chose to sit at my foot so carelessly? Sweet as a nut he will be, and I will crush him gently, I will not even have him feel his fate, if you so declare. May I not have just one of them, in recompense for all my brethren so mercilessly cut down in their prime? Am I not allowed even that small scrap of comfort? Ah, you are cruel, Forest-master, cruel…

I am the Old Grey Willow-man, and I sink now. The sun seems darker, and my forest is far away. I feel the pull of the earth, I feel the swirl of water at my roots, brown and cool and slow. I sink into slumber, and I cry for it, that I must so drown my anger, that I must so bury my pain. I am the Old Grey Willow-man and I will not move again in this world for many a season. The stars will wheel above me, and the ages now will turn, and it may be that I shall be forgotten, it may be that the Forest-master would have me forget. But I know in my heart, little ones, as I am sent into repose, as I am sent weeping into the dark to drowse the Ages away, that this is not the end. I have seen the seasons pass and pass, and I would have you know that, truly, your tiny mayfly lives will not avail you. You will come back to me once more, or if you do not, then your children will, or your children's children. And then we will finish this, my sweetings. For I am Old Man Willow, and I can wait. And I do not forget and I do not forgive. Remember that.


End file.
